


Defining You

by Illyandria Salara Valassiah (khi)



Category: Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-24
Updated: 2008-07-24
Packaged: 2018-08-09 11:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7800478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khi/pseuds/Illyandria%20Salara%20Valassiah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after "Ten Little Warlords" (s02e08).  Nothing ever changes because no one believes it can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defining You

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in response to Monthly Fanfic Challenge #1, which was posted at the Shipper Talk board of the [Xena Online Community](http://xena.yuku.com/). The challenge was to write a story of around two thousand words that follows up on any Ares episode and does not change canon (so if you are looking for explicit romance, look elsewhere). As I still have not seen every single Xena episode (including a few in which Ares is present), and have not actually watched "Ten Little Warlords" nor "The Furies" in quite some time, I cannot guarantee that canon has not been changed, but I did try my best. This story was written between July 17th and July 24th of 2008, and then slightly edited on August 17th, 2016. Do not reproduce it without the author's permission.

She makes her way through the ramshackle inn, carefully stepping over fallen beams and cautiously eying a hole that has been torn through the wall.  She pauses at Gabrielle's door, listening for trouble; hearing none, she moves on.

That so many doors have survived is surprising; she thinks about this as she reaches her own.  It's warped with age and weather, but serves its purpose well enough.  She pushes it open.

Her room is sparsely furnished.  The bed seems to have come out unharmed, but the lone table has been split down the middle.  It is now lying in a helpless heap on the floor with its legs charmingly askew.

The candle she has been holding is snuffed out and put on the windowsill; the fullness of the moon makes it obsolete.  But rather than follow her nightly ritual and begin to undress, she moves to stand in the middle of the room, arms crossed against her breastplate.

"I know you're watching me."

A moment passes in which he smiles, but she, seeing nothing, grows irate.  He appears to her then, choosing moonlight over shadow; she is surprised by this noticeable lack of drama.

"So," he drawls, "—enjoying the feel of your own body?"

Her blue eyes stare at him and she mourns, sure he can no longer feel the full ice of it.

"If you're expecting gratitude, Ares, you're out of luck.  My body should never have been taken away from me in the first place."

He looks strangely chastised.  A treacherous spark of hope flickers, but she stifles it; years of practice have made this easy.  He is a god again—there is nothing to hope for.

When he next speaks, it is to justify his actions.  She relaxes; this is familiar territory.

"I have to find my diversions somewhere, Xena," is what he says.  "Being a god…"  He glances off to the side, clenching his jaw, but meets her eyes as he completes his thought: "It gets old."

She quirks her eyebrow, and within seconds he holds up his hands, placating.  "It's not as bad as being mortal, obviously, but…I've seen gods go mad watching the millennia pass."

She tries to ignore the chill that his statement brings.

"Mortals are so young, you know," he continues, "but a few of them are strong, passionate.  They give us something to focus on."

"You treat them like toys and use them for your own amusement."  She shakes her head, glad to find she can still feel disgusted with him.  "Your godhood doesn't give you the right."

Her audacity annoys him.  "You've used your horses to go to war," he says, "and you use Argo to travel to every town on the Peloponnesus.  Tell me, Xena: how is that any different?  As much as you love her, you don't give her a choice.  We all have our place—whether we like it or not."

The implications of his statements hurt.  She doesn't know how to respond to them, so she shakes her head again and turns away.  He watches her move toward the window, and tilts his head to the side, regarding her.

"Watching mortals, participating in their lives—it all has its price, you know.  Sooner or later, you have to watch them die.  And chances are they'll disappoint you before they do."

She leans against the frame of the window and forces out a sarcastic comment.  "Gee, I wonder if that was aimed at me."

"You, yes, but there were others.  Alexander was the worst."

She turns toward him, interested and a bit confused.  "The Macedonian?"  When he nods, she tries to reconcile the image of him at Alexander's side with the one of him at hers.  It's a difficult thing to do.  She never thought of Alexander as a particularly cruel man, and the god of war relishes cruelty.

Finally, she asks, "Why him?"

He takes a moment to consider.  "Well, he was a fierce fighter—and a brilliant strategist.  Sure, if you talked to him too long, you'd think he was idealistic, naïve.  But, thing is...all his crazy ideas would have worked if his lover Hephaestion hadn't died."

She rolls her eyes.  "But if he had had his way, there wouldn't be a need for war.  Don't tell me you support that."  A silent mantra reminds her not to be disappointed: _he's a god again, he's a god again, he's a god again._

"I didn't support it," he says.  "Not really."  He pauses.  "Not until now."

Her chest tightens and grows cold; she knows it's a lie, and the words leave her feeling bereft.  They hang in the air, reminding her of the man that could have been, the man that could never co-exist with a god.  She regards him as neutrally as she can.

He continues, though it's a difficult thing to do in the face of her indifferent stance.  "I had to lose my godhood to find out how fragile mortals really are," he tells her.  "I realize now how much it takes to live the way you do—how strong you have to be just to go through life.  The strength you have to have to fight the way you do—it's even more impressive now.  Without my powers, I couldn't do much to protect myself.  Yet here you stand, despite everything."  He looks away, and swallows hard.  One of his shoulders lifts in an uncertain shrug.  "Maybe you deserve peace."

At that, she scoffs; she can think of a hundred reasons why such a sentiment can't be true.  That it comes from the mouth of a god is just the beginning.  Mortality would make it a beautiful speech, but she tries not to think about that.  He isn't mortal now.

"Don't even try it, Ares," she says.  "You _are_ war.  When your godhood was taken from you, it was _your_ traits that went into the world unfiltered."

He's heard this story before, and doesn't like it.  Even gods have a beginning, and it was near his own that he was told these same lies: _this is how it is, Ares; you can do nothing to change it, Ares; it is your duty, Ares._

So he clings to an idea newly remembered; one that was torn from him in the years of his youth: "War can change."

She shakes her head.  "You're wrong.  You hold those things inside of you—and it's important that you do.  That's where they belong.  You can't change it."  The world requires balance: this is what she tells herself.  Godhood murdered what the mortal could have been.  Were he to ever draw breath again, it would be wrong.  That she saw such _potential_ doesn't matter.

Her words are not what he wants to hear.  His anger is building—he doesn't understand why she can have such faith in others and none in him.  When he speaks, it is with hot sarcasm; his voice grows louder with each word.  "Oh, I'm sorry, I suppose you're the only one who's allowed to change around here!  Did your conversion to the greater good use up every bit of it there is?  Is there just not enough change for the rest of us anymore?"

She glares at him; it's easier to be angry at the god than to feel the loss of the mortal.  "Oh, and I suppose I should just believe you because, what?  Because you've always been honest before?  ‘Oh Xena, being mortal opened my eyes and now I just can't be evil anymore!'" she mocks.  "Forgive me for being skeptical."

His eyes burn into hers; the tension speaks volumes.  He is furious.

"I am _not_ evil," he informs her, voice low and resentful.

She scoffs; a god of war can be nothing but.  "Yeah, well, you couldn't live with peace—you don't have any in you."

She turns her back on him again, but the words hang in the air.  She can sense him swallowing them; she herself can still taste them.  She doesn't think for a moment that they were too cruel.  She can no longer talk to the mortal, after all; only the god is left.  The god wouldn't care.

Behind her, he backs away.  Unbearable moments pass, until at last the pain mutates into fury.  He never should have come here.  She doesn't understand anything.  He has killed mortals for less.

And he could kill her easily.  Right now, he wants to.  So he sets his jaw and moves toward her to strike.

But he doesn't get very far.  He isn't even close to her when his raised fist falls.  He can't do it.

So much for being a god.

Before she can turn around, he disappears, humiliated.  He'll find another way to make her pay.

She has been staring out of the window all this time, seeing nothing and waiting for him to speak.  When instead he disappears, she sighs.  The building shakes with his departure; the sky even seems to darken.  She stands there long after he's gone, mourning the man who could have been and hating the god that left.


End file.
